


The Masked Palace

by FenHarelsPride (Andauril)



Series: Siryn Lavellan [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Halamshiral, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andauril/pseuds/FenHarelsPride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Siryn Lavellan and her entourage attend the Ball at the Winter Palace. Danger and secrets boil beneath the surface, the enemy is hidden behind a mask and the night is still young. By the end of the evening, only one party can emerge victorious ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

All of it felt wrong.

The young elven girl, a servant no less, painting her lips a cherry red and applying powder to her face, while another servant girl mercilessly laced her into a corset. A third servant worked at her hair, unbraiding the long small braid she wore at the shaved side at her head and twirling and twisting the strands until she felt like her scalp was ripped off her skull.

At least she could still stand safely, but guessing by the ridiculously high heeled shows waiting just a few feet away on an embroidered pillow, this last piece of comfort wouldn’t last.

With three servants working on her to make her _representable_ , she did not dare to move even a finger. It would only take longer if she didn’t cooperate.

Siryn hissed sharply when the girl dressing her pulled the last lacing tight. She had worn this dress only once before, during the fitting, and it hadn’t been this uncomfortable back then. Mainly because they had not bothered to lace the corset tightly, since she had not worn it longer than a few minutes …

She felt ridiculous.

“Done …” said the dressing servant finally. “You look beautiful, milady.”

Wrong. All of this. Just wrong.

Even the servants! Being dressed by _elven servants_ was insulting.

She fought the urge to hiss at the girl. It wasn’t their fault. They just had done what had been ordered of them.

“Thank you”, she said instead, maybe a little too sharply for to sound honest.

The other girl – the one who just had finished doing her hair – hurried other to the pillow, carrying the shoes to bring them over. Siryn compressed her lips and suppressed an annoyed sigh while she slipped into them. Her feet would hurt horribly within the next few hours.

The powder servant reached her the mask Josephine and Vivienne had simultaneously decided for her to wear – it was of pale violet silk, inlaid with silvery grey samite, vaguely crescent shaped and would cover the left half of her face.

“It will accentuate the asymmetry of your haircut, and certainly draw the eye”, had Josephine explained, but Siryn harbored yet another suspicion. It was also meant to cover up the scar along her temple.

One more thing to make the dalish savage look more presentable.

She put the mask on and nodded, with a forced smile upon her lips, towards the three servants, before she left the room.

She had trained to walk in heels and to wear a dress, but the robe she now wore was puffy and had a ridiculous amount of underskirts. It practically forced her to walk slowly and measured in order not to trip, loose her balance or stepping onto the – multiple – seams of her dress.

The carriage was awaiting her outside the small estate Josephine had organized them to change their wardrobe. Like her whole ball gown, it was ridiculously pompous, the spikes of its wheels polished and the wood oiled and adorned with inlaid work at the doors.

With a deep bow, the carter opened the carriage doors for her.

Inside, Cullen almost immediately rose from his seat, extending one hand towards her.

“Allow me to help, Inquisitor.” He flashed her a weak, stressed smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Siryn hesitated for a moment until she took his hand. It was much better to accept help then to stumble over ridiculously many underskirts and her heels while trying to climb into a coach.

_“’Ma serannas.”_

Cullen skid to the side, allowing her to sit down more comfortably. Thankfully, the interior of the carriage was large enough for her enormous skirt. She had no other choice than to stretch out her legs to not accidentally step unto one of the many seams.

The carter closed the doors and with a smack of his whip, the carriage began to move.

“Who are the others?”

“Josephine and Leliana are in the carriage behind us.”

Siryn, gazing at her skirt, sighed. “I can imagine why.”

Cullen laughed, but it sounded almost forced. “The others must already have arrived. But I I’m afraid I’m not quite sure where Cole is. No one has seen him for hours.”

“He’ll turn up eventually. He always does.” She worried much less about Cole’s whereabouts than she did about the Masquerade itself.

They hadn’t even reached the Winter Palace, but she already felt uncomfortable. It was Halamshiral. She knew, Solas was right and the place was not her home, nor had it ever been, but it still did nothing to ease her discomfort. It was like everything here whispered from the loss of her people, as if the stones and the trees and the doors and the street she saw while she looked out of the window told her of their demise.

And she could still smell the smoke of burned slums, even knowing that it had happened years ago, that it all was just her imagination painting pictures of dying city elves.

Wearing a shemlen ball gown, she felt like a traitor to them all. Which was just as ridiculous as her pompous dress, and she knew it. Still, she couldn’t quite shake off the feeling.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?”

“Yes”, answered Siryn hurriedly, forcing a smile onto her lips.

Cullen leaned back in his seat, running one hand through his hair. “Our soldiers are all in position, and Leliana told me the same thing of her spies. If everything goes according to plan, we should be able to handle this situation.”

“Good. That means we only have to find the assassin. I’m betting my kidneys that he won’t look like these sinister, badly shaved thugs Varric describes in _Hard in Hightown._ ”

Cullen’s lips twitched for a moment. “I guess not.”

“Would make it much easier, though.” Siryn compressed her lips, suppressing a sigh.

“We’ll keep our eyes and ears open, Inquisitor.” He rubbed his forehead, only for a short moment until his hand sank into his lap and he squared his shoulders.

His lips were only a little tighter and more squeezed than usual, his brow a bit tense. Obviously she wasn’t the only one inside this carriage who didn’t exactly look forward to the Grand Masquerade.

 

Josephine looked lovely in her cream-colored dress with all their golden applications and embroidery adorning the neckline and her ivory-colored mask. She moved with a natural grace Siryn could never match while being dressed and masqueraded like a doll. Josephine, however, did not look disguised at all. She wore her ball gown with a naturalness as if she had been born with it.

“Inquisitor Lavellan.” Even Josephine’s smile did match her attire. “Allow me to say, you look lovely.”

“You as well, Josephine.” The compliment came easier because she meant it, unlike any word of thanks she might have forced herself to say.

“Shall we go, then? Your attendants already have entered the Palace.”

“Let’s get this over with.” Siryn suppressed a sigh, earning an sympathetic look from Cullen – who seemed quite unhappy himself.

“The Grand Duke is only too happy to have as at the Ball as his quests, so our invitation comes from him”, Josephine told her, walking towards the Palace gates with measured grace and still faster than Siryn could imitate wearing all these layers of silk, samite and ring velvet. “Whether we act as his allies, or upset the balance of power, he gains an opportunity … if not a clear advantage.”

Siryn only listened with half an ear. They had discussed it at lengths on more than one previous occasion.

The guards accompanying them half-blocked her view at the Palace as they passed through the gates, only stepping aside after they had entered the gardens. Her gaze almost immediately fell upon a large fountain, pompously guarded by polished golden winged lions. There was greenery, but it was tamed and cut back, bushes and trees reshaped and groomed until almost nothing of their wild and natural beauty remained.

One of the _shemlen_ standing before the fountain had noticed them and approached them with large, confident strides. He was dressed in a dress uniform, wearing blue, orange and a red sash, and the upper half of his face was hidden by a golden mask, while the lower half revealed his mouth and a heavy jaw, covered with dark but already greying stubble.

“Inquisitor Lavellan!”, he greeted her. “The rumors coming out of the Western Approach say you battled an army of demons. Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais.”

“And which Emperor would that be?” she asked, feigning ignorance. He just had confirmed her assumption about who he was.

“The charming and good looking one, of course”, the man she assumed to be Gaspard de Chalons answered gallantly. “You might find an alliance with him most beneficial.” What was visible of his mouth pulled into a smile. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor. You help me, I’ll help you.” He already turned away, strolling towards the large gates of the Winter Palace. “Mylady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Grand Ball with a hateful usurper?” He chuckled underneath his mask. “We will make quite the sight, don’t you think? The traitorous Duke of Chalons, accompanied by this most lovely and yet so powerful creature. They will be telling stories this into the next age.”

She did not buy the half of his charm. Maybe she would have, if she had been human and more at ease, less at edge. But his flirting was nothing more than part of the game. If she hadn’t been Inquisitor, the famed Herold of Andraste, he would just view her as another filthy _rabbit_. But as the Inquisitor, she was a filthy rabbit at the top of a powerful organization.

“Think about all the gossip we might stir up. I would hate to disappoint them.”

“Ah, you’re a woman after my own heart, my lady.” He bowed his head, little more than a small nod. “As your friend, perhaps there is a matter you could undertake this evening? One of your kind, though of much less standard. An elven woman named Briala – I suspect that she intends to disrupt the negotiations. My people found this ‘ambassadors’ of hers all over the fortifications. Sabotage seems the least of their crimes.”

“I might find the time to look into this matter.”

“I would be most grateful for it. But, for our both sakes, I suggest you do so _discreetly._ ” He sighed, shaking his head ever so slightly. The eye-slits of his masks stayed locked onto her. “I detest the game, but if we don’t play it well, our enemies will make us look villains.” Gaspard turned around slowly, pointing towards the gates with a gallant gesture. “But we’re keeping the court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?”

Siryn answered his question with a nod. Gaspard offered her his arm, the gallant orlesian noble from his scalp down to his toes. It took every ounce of her willpower to force herself to link arms with him. She hated it already. The pretending, the lies, the false smiles upon everyone’s face …

But worst of all was the knowledge that all of this – the pompous palace, the carefully groomed gardens, the lion guarded fountain, the clean and tidy walkways – had been built upon the bones and the shed blood of her people.

***

Solas had noticed the startled expression upon her face when they had announced him, but she had quickly managed to hide it, composing herself while she strode towards the Empress.

Now, he leaned against a pillar, glancing at the occurrence in the room. A masked elven servant cast a coy smile at him, her posture more at ease than mere moments ago. Atop one of her hands, she balanced a dozen of crystal glasses and a decanter with red vine, one of which she filled with eagerness, and bountiful, before handing it over to him.

“Thank you.” Solas took a sip from his glass. The savor of the wine was full, with a subtle pleasing sweetness on his tongue.

The servant’s smile broadened. An honest smile, surprised even. “Are you enjoying the evening so far?” Behind her masks, her eyes flickered to the side, glancing around, as if she was looking for unwanted listeners.

“Is there a reason I should not?” he asked her, lowering his voice. He lifted his glass to his lips and took another sip of the wine.

“As the Inquisitors servant, I’m sure you have nothing to fear.” She almost whispered, rearranging the glasses on her tablet, pretending to be busy while her eyes lingered on him. “But … as a friendly advice … stay where everyone can see you.”

“May I ask you why?”

“Let’s just say, I don’t think that red stuff on the floor is _paint_ …” She squared her shoulders, stepping back. “Please, excuse me now. There will be much yelling and insulting if I don’t tend to our other guests. You know how it is …” The servant flashed him another smile until she turned around, hurrying other to a gesticulating noble woman who stood on the other side of the room.

Solas sipped at his glass, shifting only so little that he earned a better look at the room. Nobody seemed to pay him any attention aside from a few frowning looks hidden behind lavish masks. While their faces were hidden, their body language was quite telling. As were their words, the way they spoke with each other. Politely, dancing around each other with compliments and questions, exchanging trivials garnered with only so little information. Behind their masks, their brows were as tense as their bodies, while all of them sought to cover their fear with nonchalance or quiet laughter.

It was a subtle fight for dominance, an advantage, every word crafted into a feint, a parade, an attack, a dodge. Always looking for an opening, a chance to exploit their opponent’s weakness, all the while sawing false leads, to strike and win.

A cards game, none of them revealing their hand, only bluffing and suggesting, trying to lure another into a sense of false security, ever looking for a crack in their mask.

The danger was immanent, thinly hidden beneath the compliments, the laughter, the seemingly pointless chats. Everyone was maneuvering their chess pieces, aiming for a checkmate with their eyes and ears blindfolded to the moves of their opponents.

It was only child’s play, compared to what he had experienced. He could outplay all of them with ease. The Game was far older than Orlais, and where they today gambled with their lives and their reputation, he once had gambled with the fate of a people at stake.

He took another sip from his glass.

None of them knew just how much was at stake today. It was crucial to succeed, to excel at the Game.

The servant woman who had before filled his glass past by him, only stopping to submit to the wish of another noble to refill his glass before she slipped out onto the balcony. She returned rather quickly, with none of the glasses on the tablet she was carrying gone.

Seemingly accidental, she came by another servant, slowing her steps only so slightly that she could murmur something.

Solas took the last sip of his wine. Even with the upper half of his face hidden, he controlled his expression, frowning inwardly.

What had happened inside the guest wing, that these servants – ignored by everyone else but him, underestimated and dismissed, yet more important to the Game than any of these nobles would ever learn – were warning each other?

The servant who had before filled his glass strode towards him. “More wine?” she asked friendly.

“I would appreciate it.”

She took the decanter, refilling his glass with the same bountiful eagerness as before. “The pleasure is mine. Enjoy your evening.”

“I will. And thank you.”

He certainly did enjoy this event. While everyone else was wearing a mask and pretending, he was home.

Solas took a sip from his freshly refilled glass. He could not say he was that Siryn had chosen for him to accompany her. He relished the opportunity to throw the mask away, if only for one evening.

 


	2. Part Two

She declined the offer of wine from one of the servants. The temptation drown her malaise in alcohol was real – she never had felt the urge to drink so strongly in her whole life –, yet she restrained herself. Siryn suspected that, if she took just one drink now, by the end of the night it would’ve become many. She wasn’t willing to take the risk, not with so much at stake.

Before she could change her mind, she quickened her steps, and slipped through the door inside an elongated room, filled with masked nobles and masked servants offering wine and cakes.

Some of the guests disrupted their talks long enough to turn around and look at her, only to start whispering agitated when she passed by.

“It’s the Inquisitor.”

“This knife-eared savage? Do you truly think they’d put a wild, uncivilized rabbit in charge?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be absurd.”

“Did you see her face? Who’s disfiguring oneself like this?”

“At least she’s pretty. Better a good-looking tool than an ugly one, don’t you agree, sister?”

It was a shame that her mask only covered half of her face. Siryn tried her best to keep her face blank and neutral, but she could her brows tensing, the press of her lips against each other. It was one thing to know that none of these nobles took her seriously, but another thing entirely to hear it.

She forced herself to ignore the continued whispers. She had been prepared for this, weeks over weeks, and she would not allow for the lessons to go to waste.

Gaspard was right: If she didn’t play the Game well, they would make her look like a villain. A wild, uncivilized savage Dalish villain, a proof for all of them that her people could not to be trusted.

A heavy wave of relief washed over her when she spotted Solas leaning against one of the statues. With as much dignity as she could muster, she drifted over to him.

Maybe it was just his attire – he wore a dark red, almost black coat which reached down almost to his knees over a vest of dark greyish fabric, and a black sash around his waist. Both vest and coat were embroidered with silverfish yarn, and the epaulettes he wore had the Inquisition’s symbol – the burning eye with the sword – on them. His attire was complete with a pair of bracers and a mask which covered the upper half of his face – from certain angles, it vaguely looked like a canine’s head.

“Inquisitor.” His tone of voice was polite, neutral, and his face remained unmoved behind his mask. Still, she had never seen him so much at ease before, except for the moments when the two of them were completely alone.

“I might need your service.” She hated the lie already, but she could hardly treat him like she was used to do if they had announced him as her “elven serving man”. Now, she had to keep the mask up, whether she likes it or not.

“Ah, I see. Always, Inquisitor.” Behind his mask, Solas’ eyes gleamed short in amusement. “You allow me …?”

“Let’s get this over with.”

With one smooth movement, he pushed away from the statue, to gesture towards the balcony’s doors. Siryn kept her false, polite smile glued onto her face while she _allowed_ him to guide her. Some of the nobles followed them with their eyes, and new whispers stirred, but she forced herself not to listen.

Solas opened the doors to the balcony, slipping through behind her before he closed them.

Siryn looked around and released a relieved sigh. They were alone.

“Elven serving man?” She raised her eyebrows. “Please point me towards whoever came up with that idea and …”

Solas chuckled. “This will not be necessary. The idea was my own.”

Siryn stared at him. She would have felt insulted if anyone ever had announced her to be servant. Once, her people had sworn never again to submit, and she lived and breathed that oath. And Solas had come up with the idea of being declared a servant before the entire Orlesian Court _on his own_?

“Why?” She could not shake off her surprise completely.

“It is the Game, Siryn. You must never reveal your cards.”

“I’d never agreed to this!” She could not shake of her indignation either.

“I know. But I am no servant, whatever they may think now of me. While they never would mistake me for one of the palace’s servants, they ignore me. This grants you an advantage.”

“Such as?”

Instead of answering, Solas only looked around, eyes keen and observant behind his mask. He took a few steps, bowing down to pick something up which had previously lain behind one of the jardinières.

Without saying a word, he handed it over to her.

It was an elongated cylinder, filled with a scrolled sheet of paper.

Cautious not to destroy it, Siryn extracted the scroll and unrolled it …

“How did you learn of this? That’s useful, Solas … Leliana pointed me towards the guest wing, and now this …” She waved with the scroll.

“I had the opportunity to watch one of the servants enter and leave the balcony.” He smiled, a smile far broader than any smile she knew of him. “I wonder how masked men live their life without ever seeing that servants have an entire society of their own? If you want to find something useful, I would pay attention to what the servants do.”

Siryn read over the scroll again, memorizing every word written on it, and rolled it together again, tucking it into the cylinder to return it to its stash.

It seemed that she would have to pay the servant’s quarters a visit sooner or later this evening.

“So … they say things around you they wouldn’t say in front of, say, the Duke of Serault?”

“Yes. There are many ways to play the Game that those nobles will never learn. The fate of nations is oft not guided by the decisions of its nobles, but by the actions of their servants.”

“True.” And by the end of the evening, one of them would emerge victorious.

She was dressed like an orlesian doll, rouged and powdered and painted and well-groomed until she could barely recognize herself in the mirror, but underneath all this layers of paint, rouge and delicate fabric, she remained the First of the People.

And by the end of the evening, one of them would pull the strings.

She just needed to know how to start.

 

It seemed there was no other way. The door to the quest wing was locked from the other side, and for the first time, and she had not the slightest idea where Cole was. She almost regretted not taking Sera along … She might have been able to pick the locks.

Siryn repressed a sigh and shoved the door to the terrace open. If she could not find any other way, she would have to risk climbing up to the balcony along the lattice.

Hopefully no one was looking while she climbed onto the balcony like the dalish savage everything around her viewed her as.

She had barely made two steps when she heard someone call her name.

Three _shemlen_ woman waved her over, and she had no choice but to oblige. This was the Game, after all. She better projected a good image. For as long as it was necessary, at least …

She already hated all of this.

“May we have a word? It is very important”, said one of the women.

Maybe there were triplets, guessing from their very similar attire and what little she could see of their faces, but it was hard to tell with the masks.

“The empress has sent us with a message for you”, continued the second woman.

“How bold of you to claim that.” Siryn made her best effort of sounding sweet. All she wanted by now was to reach the guest wing and look what clues she might find there … “How can I know it’s truly from her?”

“We three wear the masks of House Valmont.”

“They signify that we are public faces of the empress.”

“They are also very fashionable.”

“Well, then … I’m always delighted to hear from her majesty.” Slowly, she got used to fake a smile and speak without meaning anything. It unnerved her even more than walking without dripping over the seams of her countless underskirts.

“Oh! She is the delighted one, Inquisitor!”

“Empress Celene is eager to assist the Herold of Andraste in her holy endeavor.”

“She will pledge her full support to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated.”

 _With other words, she wants that we’ll help her defeat him._ “That’s very generous of her. I’m honored by her offer.”

“The empress believes wholeheartedly that the Inquisition is our best hope in these difficult times.”

“She looks forward to cementing an official alliance.”

“As soon as Gaspard is out of the way.”

Of course she did. First Gaspard, now Celene … Siryn wondered if there was anyone in the Winter Palace who hadn’t approached her with an offer of an alliance, while demanding her help with sugared words.

All of them wanted to influence the choice the Inquisition would make, none of them knew that she already had decided.

There was only one person at the Ball she was eager to meet.

“But we have taken enough of your time.”

“Please, enjoy the Masquerade, Inquisitor.”

The three noblewomen curtseyed and left the terrace.

Siryn released a sigh. Now, as that was over with, she could focus on reaching the balcony and searching the guest wing.

Preferably without being watched … And the terrace was not empty like the balcony had been, she noticed while looking around. A number of noble guests strolled around or took tiny sips of crystal glasses filled with red vine.

One of the nobles flipped a golden coin into the fountain underneath the balcony. A disgusting display of wealth … Siryn remembered that these special coins were called _“caprice”_ and specifically designed to be tossed away. Another of those weird _shemlen_ costumes she would never truly understand.

Dorian stood near the fountain, a nearly emptied glass of vine in his hand.

Relieved to have found someone who could possibly assist her with her task, she strolled over to him.

“Inquisitor!” He flashed a broad smile at her. “How are you doing so far?”

“It makes for a wonderful experience.” She couldn’t ban tone of sarcasm out of her voice.

Dorian laughed. “Ah, yes. This is all so familiar, you know. I half expect my mother to materialize and criticize my manners.”

“Well, at least you aren’t mad at me for bringing you here. I can’t imagine that they’re all exactly happy about your presence.”

“Yes, you did a terrible thing, exposing myself to all this exquisite finery and exotic wine? Such hardship.” He shrugged. “But it’s true. You’d think I smelled of cabbages, the way they wrinkle their noses. It’s of no concern, however.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes. I’m pretty much used to it by now.” He emptied his glass with a sip. “And allow me to say, you look marvelous. You should try to dress yourself like this more often, Siryn. It suits you well.”

“Flatterer.” She still felt ridiculous in this dress, but if even someone like Dorian found it looked pretty, than Josephine and Vivienne certainly had succeeded. It didn’t make her feel better, however. “You look pretty good yourself.”

And that he did. Dorian had dressed himself in dark blue with gold. The embroidery and cut of his vest and coat served to accentuate his well-toned form while still looking pretty elaborate. It did not escape her notice that not few of the nobles cast appreciative looks over to him.

“But, to be honest, Dorian …” She lowered her voice. “I could need your help.”

Dorian’s eyes gleamed underneath his dark blue, golden seamed mask. “You make me curious? What could you possibly need from me?”

Siryn glanced over to the lattice. “I need to get onto that balcony. Something is going on up there.”

“I can imagine why that could become difficult. Picture the look on their faces when they see the mighty Inquisitor climb up the lattice like a monkey … while wearing a ball dress, no less. It would make quite the scandal.”

“And how, exactly, would you help me get up there unseen?”

“By using an old trick that almost always works.” Dorian showed her a confident smile. “I’ll create a distraction.”

 

Her trip into the guest wing had provided her with a few new tidbits of information – first, something was going on inside the Palace, which, obviously, included corpses. She had found them hidden and locked behind a door, along with a few very interesting documents who might become useful later the evening. Second, the so-called arcane advisor had been called to Celene’s side as a better bodyguard, because the latter feared that Gaspard was up to something.

Siryn was on her way halfway through the library when she heard the first gong ring, calling everyone back into the ballroom.

 _“Fenedhis!”_ She compressed her lips, grinding her hands into the ridiculously many skirts she wore and quickened her steps as best as she could. Moving slowly was already difficult enough wearing these high heeled shoes …

She nearly rolled her ankles, and the dull ache in her soles intensified with every step.

“A palace built from blood and bones. They don’t care. They have taken it all and they don’t care.”

Siryn was almost sure that he hadn’t been here before, but now Cole was there, right before her. Even inside the Winter Palace, he wore his patch-worked clothes and large hat, eyes hidden in the shadows of its brim.

“I’m alright, Cole.”

“Yes. And no. You’re trying to. There are … so many hurts. Hidden beneath lies and smiles, but there. So much fear. The woman in the red and yellow dress feels pain every time she sees his face. She smiles, but her lips speak bloody promises. She pretends, but can’t forgive. The old man in the yellow uniform. His back is hurting, paining, panning, but he still nods and smiles and lies. They are all trying. Like you.”

“It’s the Game, I guess. You don’t have to like it, Cole.”

“The hardest thing is staying away.” He raised his chin, and his clouded eyes sought hers. “We’re going to help them, are we?”

Siryn sighed, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. This evening would end in bloodshed, and she could only hope that she could keep the casualties as low as possible.

“I’ll try to.”

“I hope we can help them. There’s death in the Palace. They cry and struggle and fight and call for help. But no one hears them. They die. They die, and no one cares. Fear. Why didn’t send she help? The blade sinks down, cutting, tearing. Gone.”

“Who’s gone, Cole?” She remembered suddenly what had been written upon the paper scroll.

“Nobody sees them. The people here … They have faces inside their faces, lying with a layer that tells the truth. I don’t know how to help them. And they won’t help either.”

Siryn suppressed a sigh. “Will you come with me? Show me where you’ve sensed that?”

“Yes.”

The bell ringed a second time, calling everyone back to the Ball.

 

She slipped down the stairs into the vestibule, striding down the stairs with measured steps, careful not the alert the nobles who one by one entered the ballroom.

Cole was a silent shadow behind her, and while one or the other noble cast a curious glance over to her, none of them seemed to notice him. Their gazes passed through him, as if he was not even there.

She closed the distance to the doors, as fast as she could without stirring attention or rolling her ankles. Leliana needed to learn that she’d learned in the library … and about the servants who’d gone missing in the guest wing. These things likely were all connected …

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Startled, Siryn turned around.

The speaker was a _shemlen_ woman, dressed in an elaborate red and black ball gown, with raven hair and striking ember colored eyes – and, surprisingly, she didn’t wear a mask.

“The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled hero of the faith. Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself.” The _shemlen_ woman cocked her head slightly, a mocking smirk dancing around the corners of her dark red lips. From the tone of her voice and her choice of words, as well as her stance, Siryn could tell that this woman didn’t believe all those things either. “What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do even you know?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s a secret that’ll never be revealed?”

Siryn had no idea who this woman could be. She had been prepared at length for this event, and from her lessons with Josephine, she knew that only the nobles and their servants were masks. Yet, this woman was dressed in silk and velvet and wore exquisite jewelry … Not a noble, but guessing from her behavior, she was no rich merchant or diplomat of the court either.

“It has been fascinating to watch you, Lady Lavellan. You have been very busy this evening, hunting in every corner of this dark palace …” She tilted her head, and her raven hair now covered half her eye. “Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey?”

“Perhaps? One can never know.” Siryn didn’t need the warnings and lectures of Josephine to stay cautious. She never had planned to give her true intentions away.

The raven haired woman chuckled. “You’re being coy.”

“I’d call it careful. “

The woman rewarded her with a smile. “Not unwise, here of all places.”

“Who are you?” Her patience was starting to wear thin. Next to her, Cole was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking around wide eyed underneath his large hat.

“Ah, the formalities of introductions. Sometimes tiresome, but so often necessary. I am Morrigan. Some call me advisors to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.” She bowed her head. “I believe, we can benefit from helping one another. So much is happening behind closed doors here … Recently, I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these very halls.  An agent of Tevinter.”

“Let me guess: This unwelcome guest was sneaking around inside the servants quarters?” She remembered again the message Solas had found at the balcony. It all added up.

“No, but it may be the place where this agent was heading.” Morrigan’s hand disappeared between the drapes of her skirt, holding a small item once she drew it out. “So I offer you this, Inquisitor: A key found on the Tevinter’s body. I cannot leave Celene’s side as long as she is danger. I cannot search. But you can.”

 

Siryn weighed the key in her hands when she entered the ballroom. While she was eager to open the door to the servant’s quarters with it, she planned on telling Leliana or any other of her advisors about it first. They all still knew little about what was going on inside the palace, and the sooner she informed them, the better …

The guests were already roaming the dance floor. It was hard to make out anyone other than their skirts and coats and mask, and their organized movements. Siryn felt a wave of relief wash over her that she was too busy to join them down there. She still had no love left for these orlesian dances …

“Cullen is afraid”, mumbled Cole behind her.

“What?”

Siryn almost stopped to turn around, and only in the last moment she remembered that – for everyone but her attendants – it would appear as if she was talking with thin air. Which no one would ever see as good sign, especially with a mage.

“They’re hunting him, following fear. He shouldn’t be here.” Cole’s voice was but a whisper behind her back. “It’s like another cage. He can’t go away. He shouldn’t be here.”

Siryn remembered the expression on Cullen’s face during their carriage ride to the Palace. He’d left the impression that he wasn’t exactly happy of having to attend the Ball, but she’d never thought … It made her gut clench suddenly.

She glanced over to the spot were Cullen was again surrounded by crowd of powdered, painted and masked nobles. One of them extended his hand and grabbed his butt. Cullen tensed immediately, and even from where she walked, she could almost see the distress reflected in his amber eyes.

She didn’t have to think about it twice.

“Commander?” She stepped closer, not caring that she almost pushed one of the preying noble women aside. “Could you spare me a moment?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“I’d suggest a quieter place”, she said with a small, encouraging smile. “It’s a little loud here, with all the music.”

“That’s … only reasonable, I think.” He nodded over to his admirers, and that close, it was obvious that his smile was forced and not at all honest. “Excuse me, please.”

Siryn smiled at them, eyes narrowed into a warning, and linked arms with Cullen to lead him away and out of the ball room, gently, but firmly. She could just as well tell Cullen about her next steps. He would make certain that Leliana and Josephine learned of them too – and it separated him from the pack of hungry admirers who preyed after him.

“Cullen?”, she asked him as soon as they’d left the ballroom, guiding him over into the guest wing. “You’re alright?”

“I’m fine, Inquisitor.”

“They’d never left you alone on their own. Harpies. _Fen’Harel vera esh’ala.”_

Cullen forced a laugh. “That’s likely true. Thank you for your intervention, Inquisitor.”

“Siryn”, she corrected him. “I’ve got a name, and I’d like you to use it.”

“I don’t know if that’d be appropriate, Inquis… Siryn.”

Siryn guided him into an almost empty room and let go of his arm. “Maybe I don’t care about ‘appropriate’. We’ve working together for so long now. It’s about time.”

Cullen laughed, and it sounded a little nervous in her ears. “Alright. Siryn, then. Anyway, you wanted to talk with me?”

Siryn cast a glance over her shoulder, to make sure that no one was nearby to hear them, and nodded. “Yes. I think we’ll have to search the servant’s quarters, and sooner rather than later. We’ve found … alarming glues that something’s wrong there. Disappearing servants, and a tevinter agent was trying to get inside there.”

“What about that arcane advisor Leliana mentioned?”

“At this point, anyone is a suspect aside from our own people, but I’m not so sure anymore that she’s the one who wants to kill Celene.” Siryn shrugged. “She gave me the key to the servant’s quarters. Could be a ruse, but …”

“Be careful, In … Siryn. I’ll tell Josephine and Leliana where you’re going, but once you’ve entered the servant’s quarters, there’s little we can do for you.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to go there alone. When you return into the ball room, could you tell Cassandra to meet me before the door to the servant’s quarters in, let’s say, a quarter-hour?”

Cullen nodded. “Of course.” He sighed. “Maker’s breath, I hope this evening will be over soon. I already had enough backstabbing and pretending for an entire year.”

“You’re not alone with that, Cullen.”

Creators, she only hoped that she would find something useful inside the servant’s quarters, and that this evening would come to its conclusion soon. She could not wait to leave this damned place behind.

 

 


	3. Part Three

The corpses of about five or six servants – it was hard to tell, given that they all lay shuffled together on a pile, legs and arms entwined in death – there the first thing Solas noticed once the door to the servant’s quarters had closed shut behind them.

Likely, none of the nobles attending the ball, not even their own employees, had noticed their disappearance. For them, they were nothing more than another few pairs of pointed ears, easily dismissed, easily forgotten and just as easily superseded.

What a terrible waste of lives.

“So, that’s what happened to the servants.” Siryn’s lips were pursed into a thin line, their paleness only hidden by the cherry-red paint. She stepped closer, kneeling down next to the pile of corpses, grabbing on of her elbow-length gloves and pulling it off. “This one has been killed not long ago. The body is still warm. I’d say … maybe half an hour, or shorter, even”, she said, bare hand touching the corpse on top of the pile.

“Siryn, as much as I enjoy your raw dalishness, touching a bloody corpse is a little disgusting”, muttered Dorian.

Siryn, rising from her kneeling position, slipped her hand back into her glove and turned around. “Shouldn’t you be used to it by now? Or … wait, are you just concerned that I could ruin my dress? That would definitely leave a sore impression at court. Too much raw dalishness for these orlesian nobles.” Her expression shifted, from teasing to serious, in a heartbeat. “Could any of them tell you that their murderers are likely still nearby?”

“I’d be glad if the corpses could tell you that there aren’t any murderers nearby. I don’t know if my aiming is as accurate as usual at the moment.”

Siryn seemed to decide to ignore him, turning around to Cole. “Is this the place where you felt their hurts?”

“Yes.” Cole nodded. “They’re gone now, but their fear lingers. There are … others.”

“Where?”

“I can show you.”

 

The next victim, surprisingly, was no servant. The man looked like a noble, dressed in elaborately tailored clothing, with his masked face downturned. He lay in a puddle of his own blood, a wavy-bladed dagger stuck at his back.

“No servant”, murmured Siryn. “What was he doing here?”

“Is that the Chalon family crest?” Dorian eyed the dagger with suspicion. “What have you been up to, Gaspard?”

“Once we’re done here, it’s time for a friendly chat with the Duke.” Once again, she pursed her lips into thin line. “First the servants … Was he responsible for their deaths, too?”

“Gaspard does not care about the …”

A scream and the sound of approaching steps cut Cassandra off.

She whirled around at the noises, only moments before a seemingly frightened elven servant run into view from behind one of the garden walls. The man chasing after her was dressed like a harlequin, his face hidden completely a white and red painted mask. One moment, it almost seemed like the elf could escape – the next, the assassin struck her down, one of his blades cutting through the fabric of her dress and deep into her skin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Solas noticed that lightning already spurred along the lengths of Siryn’s arms.

She chased forwards, but before she could reach the assassin or even find the time to cast her spell, he threw something, vanishing in a cloud of dark smoke.  

“Where did he go? He can’t be far …!”

The dark smoke cleared, but the assassin was no longer there. The spot where he had stood when he threw the bomb was empty, with only the bloodied corpse of the dead servant remaining.

“Up there!” Cassandra pointed at the balcony just above the lion guarded fountain.

_“Fen’Harel ver ish._ We need to get him! Now!”

***

If anyone would have told her just an hour ago that she would meet Ambassador Briala in a deserted corridor in the servant’s quarters, with the slashed remains of a harlequin-dressed assassin between them, she would have laughed into their face and called them ridiculous.

Yet here she stood …

“Inquisitor Lavellan. Slumming in the servant’s quarters with the rest of your people for once? We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? I’m Ambassador Briala.” Briala bowed, just deep enough to pay respect. “

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Ambossador.” That much, at least, was the truth.

This woman had claimed the Eluvian’s for their people, and Siryn knew that without her, live for the elves of Orlais could have been noticeably worse. Briala was smart and she was devoted to the People, despite being not Dalish herself, despite having lived a more comfortable life than most them. If the elves of Orlais had a chance, it was this woman.

“Your reputation for getting results is well deserved. You’ve killed those Tevinter’s without even getting your dress bloody.” Siryn followed Briala to the balcony. “I came down to save or avenge my missing people, but you’ve beaten me to it.” Briala turned around, her head slightly tilted. The silvery mask she wore made reading her emotions almost impossible. “So … the Council of Herolds’ emissary in the courtyard … that’s not your work, is it?”

“He was already dead when we found him.” This was still the Game, even here. Even when she wanted Briala as an ally.

She was already so tired of all of this, the lies and half-truths and the dancing around the issue, the dishonesty …

And being here sickened her. She could shake the feeling of walking over the skulls and bones of her people. This was where her people should be, and yet, they were unwelcome here, while _shemlen_ usurped the old capital of the _elvhen_ and called it their home.

“I expected as much. You may have been invited by the Grand Duke, but you don’t seem to be doing his dirty work.”

So Briala already knew of the Chalons crest on the knife …

“I knew he was smuggling in chevaliers, but killing a council emissary? Bringing Tevinter agents into the Palace?” Briala crossed her arms. “These are desperate acts. Gaspard must be planning to strike tonight.”

“He didn’t seem that desperate to me.”

“Gaspard is playing the Game. He might despise it, but that won’t keep him from playing it. He’s a brute, but not dumb.” Briala raised her chin ever so slightly. “I misjudged you, Inquisitor. You might just be an ally worth having. What could you do with an army of elven spies at your disposal? You should think about it.”

“An army of elven spies? Sounds tempting.”

“I know. And I know which way the wind is blowing. I’d bet coin that you’ll be part of the peace talks before the night is over. And if you happen to lean a little bit our way? It … could prove advantageous to both of us. Just a thought.” And with those words, Briala jumped off the balcony.

Siryn watched the elven ambassador vanish, disappearing behind the garden walls like a shadow.

She felt awfully out of place. She was tired of all the backstabbing, the dishonesty, the feeling of walking other bones upon bones of dead elves.

Her people. The walls were built from their corpses, the floor made of their skulls, and the fountains spilled _elvhen_ blood into their basins. She felt like a ghost, a relic, the only living Dalish elf here for centuries upon centuries …

She only wanted this night to be over …

***

“Inquisitor Lavellan? We met briefly. I am Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons. Welcome to my party.”

They had entered the ball room mere moments ago, and yet the Grand Duchess seemed to have awaited them. Solas did not believe it was coincidental. Gaspard was not the only de Chalons present this evening. For all they knew, the dagger found at the dead emissary’s body could just as likely belong to her.

“Can I help you with anything, Your Grace?” Siryn’s tone of voice was polite, yet with a small edge to it that betrayed her tiredness. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Indeed you can. I believe tonight you and I are both concerned about the actions of … a certain person.” Florianne walked over to the steps which lead down. “Come, dance with me. Spies will not hear us on the dance floor.”

Siryn seemed to hesitate for a moment, her lips compressed into a thin line. “Very well”, she answered, finally, “let us dance.”

Florianne smiled, a calculated smile that didn’t reach her eyes behind the mask, and allowed Siryn to lead her down the stairs.

Her dancing lessons certainly had paid off. Siryn moved over the dance floor gracefully, bowing, hands outstretched or linked with the Duchess, whirling the larger woman around, all in strict time with the music.

From where he stood, he could only hear figments of their conversation, questions asked and answered with questions, never revealing or betraying too much.

Their words were as much a dance as their movements.

And his heart did intriguingly well.

“Do you want some wine, messere?”

Solas turned his face ever so slightly. “Yes. I would appreciate it.”

The elven servant bowed and filled one of the crystal glasses he was balancing on the top of his tablet with claret, handing it over to Solas.

“The Inquisitor is quite the sight, isn’t she?”, murmured the servant.

“She is undoubtedly a beautiful woman.” Her grace and wisdom, her spirit outshined everyone in this palace. It was not only that she looked like Elvhenan reborn in her dress – she was. She was Elvhenan like it should have been. Strong and unyielding, bright and pure.

Solas took a sip of his wine, slowly emptying it while silently watching his _vhenan_ dance and play the Game with equal grace. She even took care that the Duchess only ever had a good look upon the masked side of her face, so that no shift in her expression could betray her.

The mere thought of someday leaving this woman behind made his heart shrivel and die, crying in silent agony, his breath catching in his throat until he found himself struggling for air …

“More wine?” asked the servant with the decanter.

Solas nodded, without saying a word, and forced his eyes to avert the dance floor, where the dance and the Game continued. Empress Celene was nowhere to be seen, but he caught a glance of Briala slipping onto one of the balconies. Gaspard entered the room, exchanging a few seemingly meaningless words with one of the nobles.

One the dance floor, Siryn was dragged away from Florianne, dancing with a nobleman and then an elderly woman wearing a feathered mask.

He had half emptied his glass when the dance ended.

Siryn, gathering her skirts, climbed the stairs. Not few of the nobles and servants cast appreciative glances over to her, and Solas could hardly blame them. Her dress, elaborate layers of silk and samite in various shades of violet, served well to accentuate her lithe form – all the more since her broad skirt made her waist appear even slimmer in comparison.

He was not above appreciating the sight – her bare shoulders, and the way her bodice created the illusion of fullness …

And yet her attire paled in comparison to her spirit. The pining glances of all these men and women did only scratch the surface, fetishizing her for their baser needs. None of them saw her like he did. For them, she was a nice looking elf, one who had continued putting their low expectations to shame.

For him, however …

She strolled over to him, refusing a glass of wine offered to her by one of the servants with a shook of her head a smile.

“I thought all those dancing would never stop”, she murmured, glancing over her shoulder shortly until she turned around to face him again. “I’m pretty sure one of my underskirts got ripped. I stepped on it. Thankfully nobody noticed.”

“For someone who detests the Game as much as you do, you are playing it surprisingly well.”

“Thank you … I guess.” She sighed. “You seem awfully at ease here, Solas.”

“Oh … I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger and sex that permeates these events.”

“Really? I’d never guessed.”

“I have seen countless such displays in … my journeys to the Fade. The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change.” He cursed at himself for his almost-slip of tongue. “There are a great many things you don’t know about me, _vhenan._ ”

She smiled. “One more thing, though. Maybe I should take you along the next time one of our potential allies throws a party. Just to shock the nobles …”

Solas laughed. “I doubt that would be wise. Though I will not deny that the notion is … tempting.”

He took another sip of his wine.

“Are there other things tempting to you this evening? I hate these Orlesian dances, but with the right partner …”

“Dancing with your elven manservant would win you few favors with the court. But perhaps once our business here is done?”

Her smile brightened. “I take you up to that.”

***

The Grand Duchess was behind all this. Previously, Siryn only had had a suspicion, but now she knew it with absolute certainty.  Florianne herself had told them, shortly before she’d left them all at the mercy of her Venatori and disappeared.

The Venatori were all dead now, and the rift that had threatened to flood the courtyard with demons sealed for good. If Florianne had hoped to have them killed, she had failed …

But then, they didn’t need to be dead for Florianne to succeed.

At least, they had found something useful inside the Royal Wing. Gaspard had hired mercenaries to sneak into the Palace, obviously planning a coup to overthrow Celene during the ongoing peace talks. The mercenary captain had been all too happy to testify after they had saved him from the Venatori.

They finally had all the leverage they needed to support Briala.

Now they just needed to arrive in time …

Siryn had never hated her ball gown as much as she did now. She was struggling to keep her balance with every second step, again and again she threatened to drip over her countless underskirts, especially the one she had partly ripped off while dancing with the Grand Duchess. Her feet were hurting from wearing those ridiculous shoes, and she was almost completely certain that she would find blisters if she took them off. On top of that, she could hardly breathe with her corset and run slowly out of air.

Cursing, she finally stopped to slip out of her shoes, violently tearing off the partly ripped underskirt. Josephine would scold her for this – and she rather not thought about Vivienne – but she couldn’t care less right now.

She needed to be present when Florianne murdered Celene, otherwise no one could order for the Grand Duchess to be arrested, and Corypheus would _succeed._

She grabbed her skirts and run, hurried up the stairs and pushed the door open.

On the other side of the vestibule, she saw Florianne enter the ball room, and …

Cullen!

Creators be blessed, maybe she wasn’t too late.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, I was just …”

She came to a halt before him, cutting him off. “Cullen, Florianne plans to kill Celene while she’s holding her speech.”

Cullen immediately squared his shoulders, bracing. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Wait for Florianne to strike, then arrest her.”

If Cullen felt uncomfortable with her orders, he didn’t let it show. His face remained serious, unmoved, and he nodded firmly. “Understood.”

Siryn took a deep breath and entered the ball room, Cullen and the others following suit. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Josephine in her cream colored dress and Leliana, slightly nodding over to her. The musicians still played the fiddle and the lute and the harp, and nobles stood everywhere around the ball room, talking and drinking perfumed wine out of crystal glasses.

No one was aware of what was about to happen.

Every face turned to the empress. Celene entered the ballroom from the other side, and she, too, was unaware of Florianne who loomed only steps behind her, ready to strike.

“Let all gathered attend. Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court.” The herold announced his empress, unaware as well.

“My friends, we have lost much.” Celene began her speech, facing her guests with a welcoming gesture. If she would have turned around, she might have sensed the danger she was in. It was probably good that she didn’t … “We have each seen a child, a lover, a friend consigned to the flames. The darkness has closed around us, but even now, there is light! We must be that light! We must lead our people safely through these troubled times. We must be their guiding star. Tonight, the war dividing us must end.”

Unaware, Celene welcomed Florianne to her side.

Siryn took a deep breath, bracing herself for that was about to come next.

“My friends, we are here to witness an historic event.” For almost everyone else, Florianne’s words had to sound like a promise, igniting hope.

But Siryn knew what it truly was. An announcement. It was the prelude to the death of an empress.

“A great change is coming for all of us.” Florianne stepped behind Celene, slowly, and menacing. “Isn’t that right, Gaspard?”

Celene gasped. Behind her mask, her eyes widened in sudden shock and pain, and a red wet spot began to grow at her stomach, blood drenching her elaborate blue dress.

It was terrible. The empress was sputtering blood, struggling to keep at her feet, her fingers clawing into the banister. Her face went pale behind layers of paint, and her face was distorted in pain and shook, mouth opened wide. Her teeth and tongue, her lips were red from blood.

Siryn felt her stomach twist, the sudden urge to avert her eyes and turn away. She hadn’t thought it would affect her so much. Empress Celene had burned down an entire alienage full of her people. She didn’t deserve pity, and yet … watching her death struggle was almost too much to bear.

She wanted to look away, to leave the ball room, but she forced herself to watch. She was not the one wielding the knife, but it was a meaningless difference. This was as much her doing as it was Florianne’s. Hers was not the dagger who killed the empress, but she could just as well killed her herself.

She would turn away. This was her doing, and she would face it. She would memorize this moment, because if she ever allowed herself to forget, she would also forget taking responsibility for it.

She had allowed Celene to die.

It was a burden she had to carry from now on.

***

Solas waited for the former arcane advisor to leave until he slipped out at the balcony.

If Siryn had noticed him, she showed no reaction. She lounged over the banister, staring down at the gardens – a small breeze of wind played with a strand of her hair that had escaped the artful bun it had been coiffed into.

With her pale hair and skin, she appeared to him as if she had been carved from ivory, made as if made from a figment of the moon that shone from above.

“I’m not surprised to find you out here. Thoughts?”

She released the slightest of signs, turning her face towards him, leaning into his touch. Her skin was cool from the night air. “I’ve achieved all what I wanted. Briala will rule the empire from behind the thrown, just like I planned it …”

“But?” The slight crack in her voice had not escaped his notice.

“It was the best decision, Solas, I believe that. But … I’ve seen her face, when she died. I fear … I’ve sacrificed Celene for our people. It doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would.”

“Sacrifices are never easily made. We can only hope to learn to live with them.”

She showed him a weak smile. “I guess they wouldn’t be called sacrifices otherwise.”

“You did well, _vhenan._ ” He beheld her face, the mask that still covered the half of it, her cherry red painted lips and red vallaslin, now both drained of color from the pale moonlight. “There are spirits hovering by the Veil to observe the thrones of powerful nations. The machinations, betrayals … After this evening, I understand why. I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue.”

She raised the eyebrow not hidden behind her mask, tilting her head in surprise. “You missed court intrigue? When have you been at court?”

Solas cursed inwardly. This slip of tongue shouldn’t have happened … Maybe he should have declined his last glass of wine.

“Oh, well, never … directly, of course. An elven apostate is rarely invited to speak with empresses and kings.” He had to be more careful. As much as he wished to lay his past – the truth – bare before her … “But, from the Fade, I have watched dynasties form and empires crumble. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble. And always fascinating. In any event, Gaspard should be a steadfast ally, and Briala will keep him in check … and look after the elves.”

“I hope she’ll be able to use her position and help our people.”

“ _Our_ people? Who are – ” Solas paused. “Oh, you mean elves! I’m sorry, I was confused. I do not consider myself to have much in common with the elves.”

Another slip of tongue. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be carried away by this evening.

“You’re you, elf or not”, she murmured, moving closer, her fingers brushing over his. “But I still think your ears are quite pleasingly shaped, _emma lath._ ”

He laughed. “A compliment I can only return, _vhenan._ ”

“Thank you, Solas. For coming with me and making me enjoy this moment.”

Her gaze was intense. A smile brightened her face, slightly wrinkling the corners of her eyes.

“You should. They’re fleeting enough. Hang on to them when you can.” Inside the ball room, the musicians started playing another piece of music, a slow and sensual composition, thrumming with something that almost felt like home. “Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.” He bowed before her, offering his hand.

Siryn seemed to hesitate for a moment. “I’d love to.” She took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his’, and he drew her a little closer.

With his other hand laying at the curve of her waist, he guided her in slow circles, unable to see anything other than her face – her brightening smile, her twinkling eyes reflecting the stars and the moon. She held the sky in her gaze, a myriad glistering jewels, and he was unable – unwilling – to avert the eye.

She was a miracle. Her spirit put all the twinkling stars above to shame.

He drew her closer, and closer with every step of their dance.

“Do you still despise Orlesian dances now, _vhenan_?”

She smiled, leaning into his touch. A step closer. He could almost feel her warm breath at his cheeks. “I don’t think that’ll ever change, but at least you make them more enjoyable.”

_“’Ma neral.”_

She smiled and let go of his hand, just long enough to grip his mask and threw it away, followed by her own, until her fingers intertwined once more with his. “Better”, she hummed.

He whirled her around, only to drew her closer than before, wrapping his arms around her, holding her. She leaned into his embrace, her head resting against his shoulders.

The music faded away, and left only the beating sounds of their hearts under the stars.


End file.
